Unwholesome Foursome
by loungelizard85
Summary: Pre Glee. After working on an assignment together, Rachel and the Unholy Trinity start a tradition of telling stories (a la 'Are you afraid of the dark') that is reluctantly observed, framing the events of the series. Established Brittana, eventual Faberry. Continues on through the series, season 4. I own nothing.


"I can't believe this!"

Rachel figured that Quinn had a few other choice words she wanted to say, but wouldn't. Despite being soon to be queen of McKinley and a horrible person because of it, the taller blonde took her Christian faith seriously, treating the word 'hell' with all the gravitas of Annie Wilkes. Ahead of them, Brittany and Santana trotted, disinterested in Quinn's ravings.

"I assure you Quinn; this is not my ideal outcome either. But I hope we can make the best out of this-"

"Enough. You annoy me. Let's just get through this and deal with it." Rachel resisted the urge to point out that this was what she just said, and waited until they caught up to the other two cheerleaders.

_This_ was the ill fortune of a writing teacher's insistence that their short stories be collaborative projects. Everyone paired up rather quickly, four to a group, and as Rachel suspected she was the odd one out. Technically there _was_ still one group with an empty slot, but this was most unfortunate of all: Quinn, Brittany and Santana, also known as _Quinnifer_, _Beelzebritt_, and rather lacking in subtlety, _Satan_, collectively known as the _Unholy Trinity_. While the nickname was deserved personally, their influence was small; being Freshmen, even with Quinn as favorite for head Cheerio, the school cheering squad, the older members chafed under her leadership, and the younger ones saw themselves on almost equal footing, were it not for the presence of Coach Sylvester, mutiny would be rampant. Still it would be only a year or so until they were ruling the school, and if what was going to happen was what Rachel thought was going to happen, they would live up to their monikers and make her life hell.

Rachel's process for dealing with such scenarios, because they were multiple if not numerous, consisted of attempting to blend in with another group, and hope to be passed over, and then turn in the assignment, with some excuse: _I tried to get your attention, but couldn't so I just did the work on my own, sorry._ Generally no one cared, group work was just a way to make sure students did the work, as it would be divided and no one wanted to be responsible for another failing, and have to answer for it. She doubted it would work this time and her apparent low level psychic abilities were proven right- the teacher asked her if she had her group and seeing the cluster of students separate from her had to answer no. Valiantly, she tried to convince the instructor that all the groups were filled, but the teacher who couldn't see their glares managed to deduce that the trio needed a fourth, and glumly took a seat nearby, where they ignored her for the rest of the period.

Until now, because, apparently, Quinn refused to have her grades diminished because of the _hobbit_, Santana did not need a bad grade in what she called a 'gimmie class' and Brittany was indifferent, face set in a manner somewhere between stoic and vacant.

"So, whose car?" Santana asked the question, only to do so before Quinn gave the command, and selected one, hoping to establish her rebellion, without dealing with Quinn's wrath. The hazel eyed girl scowled, making Rachel feel isolated from the triad, waiting for the two of them to finish whatever silent power struggle they had, trying to count herself along with Brittany, a silent observer of something separate and forced upon her, so she doesn't feel like a third wheel.

Fourth, actually. Quinn seems to be making up her mind, most likely to find a way to disparage Rachel's transportation situation, without having the petite brunette soil her car with her presence, to insult her twice.

"We'll take yours, since you're _so_ concerned, S." Santana nodded.

"Then what house are we working in? Can't be mine, I want to slip out later, and if my mom knows I'm home, she'll want me to stay." Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Brittany's, then." The taller blonde shook her head.

"Lord Tubbington is in detox. He can't be around a lot of noise, or else he'll get cranky and fall off the wagon."

"Catnip?" Santana asked; she liked to play along.

"No. Columbian Cocaine and Nyquil." Santana turned back to Quinn.

"What about your big-ass mansion, Q?" Quinn glared.

"No, just… no" Invariably, three sets of eyes settled on Rachel, and she wondered if she should feel honored that they were gracious enough to want to work in her home or indignant that they expected her to offer without having to be asked.

Rachel sighed.

"My house would be suitable for our work, if everyone else's is indisposed." Flexible, but not submissive. _Good for you, Rachel, _she thought, mentally patting herself on the back. Quinn was unimpressed.

"Fine, if there is no other option."

"There doesn't appear to be, Quinn."

"I'm aware, _manhands."_

"Good for you!" The sarcasm bubbled up inside of her because of the name calling, and she stared up at a scowling Quinn. The effect had some weight behind it; with her hair pulled back in her trademark pony, the harsh features of Quinn's face were much more visible; Rachel had once, and only once seen Quinn let her hair down, looking remarkably like a _teenager_, a normal one at that, and not the HBIC for once. And like an event horizon covering a gravitational singularity, ironically in the pull of her hair from forming feature softening bangs to a constricted tail, the brief bit of normal Quinn gone in a flash.

"Can this battle of will wait until after we finish this stupid assignment? I actually have things to do besides bible study and gender reassignment surgery." Quinn whirled away from Rachel, catching Santana's gaze.

"And what does _Brittany_ have to do today?" Quinn still held the Latina's stare, quickly becoming a glare, as the fairer haired girl turned her attention from the near empty parking lot she had been concentrating on.

_Well, _concentration_ is a bit of an overstatement with Brittany… _Rachel amended.

"Dance, Lord Tubbington's bath, San-" Santana caught Brittany's wrist and she stopped, but Quinn's smile widened and Rachel catches it too, also seeing how Brittany wondered close enough so that Santana could stop her, as she began to reveal more than the other would appreciate. It was a warning, and between Brittany's nigh unblinking gaze, Quinn's Cheshire cat smile and Santana's face etched in fear, Rachel spoke what she meant to think.

"We should do a horror genre." It's quiet, so much so that even though she mumbles, and Rachel never mumbles what she intends others to hear, the three taller girls turn to her, Quinn's smile fading, Santana loosening her grip and Brittany's cerulean eyes focusing a bit.

"Scares sell," she remarks. Rachel blinks trying to break the spell that appears to keep them in silence, save for the distant rumble of the last car leaving the lot. Quinn looks back at Santana, who nods in agreement.

Quinn gets the last word.

"Good."

It's a quiet drive to Rachel's house, Santana, Brittany and Rachel in the back seat, Quinn driving, because she insisted that Santana would get them killed, and the _three_ of them were important. Rachel rolled her eyes at the obvious slight, but it still hurt, and Quinn knew she didn't need to be clever. Let it never be said that Quinn Fabray was inefficient.

Santana countered that she would love a chauffeur. Sitting in the back, Rachel made it a point to stare out the window, aware of Santana and Brittany linking pinkies, and not wanting a dirty look from the former.

The three cheerleaders let themselves in, after Rachel opened the door; she figured neither of her dads would be home, the only reason she even agreed to let them over, she would be damned if any of their… nonsense infected her home life.

Collecting in the kitchen, Brittany immediately snatched up one the vegan oatmeal raisin cookies, and bit into it, Rachel fearing the impulsive blonde would spit it out in distaste.

Instead Brittany happily munched away, ducking Santana when she tried to take the treat away.

"Brit, you don't know where that's been, especially in this house." Rachel furrowed her brow.

"I assure you Santana, there's noting wrong with my cooking."

"I bet you put a little something _extra_ in every drop, huh, treasure trail?" Brittany polished off the cookie and picked up another.

"You should try this, San." Brittany held the cookie for the other girl. Santana protested.

"Like fu-" The rest of Santana's tirade was silenced by Brittany shoving the cookie into her open mouth. Rachel bit her lip to keep from laughing, realizing she was missing one Cheerio.

Quinn was staring down the refrigerator, on closer inspection, a photograph, of Rachel and her dads, staring intently, but without distaste. Rachel slid between Quinn and the stove, expecting a glare and a flippant insult, but Quinn kept looking.

"Are these your… parents?" Rachel's mind had drifted over to Santana and Brittany, where the former asked the latter if she remembered "that talk about shoving things into my mouth" to wit Brittany asked if "she meant the bedroom one or the general one" so she was startled by the inquiry.

"Y-yes" Quinn frowned, and turned to look at Rachel. The familiar hard edge returned to her face and she broke away from the corner formed by the appliances, and returned to her compatriots, Santana having recovered from her choking fit, and Brittany having eaten most of the cookies on the plate.

"Let's get to this. RuPaul, you ready, or what?" refusing to acknowledge the insult, Rachel wordlessly joined the others, wondering what horrible things Quinn would say about her fathers come tomorrow, feeling guilty for allowing them into the house, their home.

"So. Who's starting?" Brittany glanced at three others, waiting expectantly.

"What?" Brittany, with what might pass as annoyance crossing her face turned to Quinn.

"Telling stories." Brittany replied succinctly. Rachel chanced to speak.

"How would that work, exactly?" For once rather than snarl at Rachel, Quinn and Santana looked to Brittany for her response. She sighed.

"We each tell a story, and the best one gets written and handed in," Brittany chirped, belying the tired expression she wore.

"This isn't a campfire, Britt," Quinn lightly admonished. Brittany nodded.

"Of course not. They're aren't any s'mores." _And on that bit of illogic… _Avoiding the urge to roll her eyes, Rachel saw that Quinn and Santana seemed to agree this would work, amazing her that despite Quinn's role as the _alpha_ (something she saw on the Discovery Channel, although it was applied to males) Brittany easily swayed the more aggressive girls to her will.

Looking around awkwardly, the room was deathly silent, a small wall clock's ticking upping the unease felt by Rachel most of all. When Quinn suddenly let out a frustrated breath, Rachel almost fell of her seat startled, but managed to catch herself, gripping the stool and the counter of the kitchen island for stability. Neither Santana nor Brittany seemed to notice, and if Quinn did, she didn't care.

"If you're all going to sit there, _useless_, I'll start." Quinn stared at the counter top, apparently deep in thought, suffocating silence returning like water flowing into a crevice, filling a void. It seemed to Rachel that that void was almost filled, drowning them, when Quinn spoke again.

"My… story," Quinn did not like to not know what she was doing, and struggled to claim a narrative, "is about…. Being careful…. What you wish for, Quinn finished, looking up from the tile. Santana and Brittany stared, waiting for her to continue, and Rachel watched from the corner of her vision, not daring to look her in the eye, especially with Quinn uncomfortable, likely to lash out.

"Yes, this is a story about wishes gone wrong," Quinn nodded to herself for emphasis, and I'll call it…," Quinn glanced at Rachel, and smiled, "My story is called '_Upon A Star.'_"

Rachel did not like where this was going.

"Quit the crap Fabray, you're no Rod Serling, and this isn't _The Twilight Zone."_ Brittany looked thoughtful.

"I think she could be a Forest Whittaker," she noted.

"Can I continue, please?" Santana huffed, but remained quiet, and Brittany set a hand on her back, causing her to shift a little, under the belief that the other two in the room wouldn't notice. Quinn waited a beat, and then started again.

"Taking place in a small town, whose name is not important-"

"Cause you can't think of one," interjected Santana. Quinn kept going, although through gritted teeth.

"-Because it could be any small town-"

"So, any town, _anywhere_, will do? Original, Q." Quinn was beginning to seethe, but rapidly became calm.

"It's somewhat like _you_, in that way. Why so vocal today, S? Huh? No time for a quickie in the janitor's closet with Britt?"

"Suck me." Even though it was meant for Quinn, Rachel felt herself blush.

"He likes 'Custodial Engineer'," said Brittany, regarding the closet's intended user.

"In your dreams," Quinn finished primly. Santana smirked.

"In them, you're begging for _it_." That drove Rachel over the edge.

"Can we please continue with this exercise? I have a _very_ strict schedule to stay on and this is cutting into my vocal practice." Santana held her hands up in mock surrender.

"We all have things we would rather be doing, but we're not complaining, are we, Q? The blonde didn't answer, instead holding Rachel's gaze.

"Vocal practice? You sing, Berry?" The brunette returned Quinn's stare warily.

"Yes, Quinn. Why do you ask?"

"It's hard to imagine a voice _that_ annoying capable of carrying a tune." It was Rachel's turn to huff in indignation, although it was mostly for show. Few if any of the students or faculty knew about Rachel's ability and desire to sing. They never asked. And with Sandy Ryerson's glee club only for boys, that left her with few opportunities to share it with someone, even if that person was degrading it, degrading her.

What good is a gift you can't share with anybody?

"I'll have you know, I am an accomplished vocalist and performer-"

"Anything I would have seen?" Rachel had been intent on labeling her abilities, in an effort to challenge Quinn's assertion, to talk about her dreams with someone who wasn't either of her fathers or herself. But that question, almost a statement, as Rachel figured Quinn already knew the answer, eyebrow arched in anticipation, and not for her response.

"Well no, not exactly, mostly… _local_ performances, since I was four." The blonde bitch had effectively given her enough rope with which to hang herself, or at least, her ego.

"Hmmm. See, that's odd for me. I wouldn't call myself an accomplished performer, and yet I've performed for _thousands._

I would never just give myself a label like that, one I didn't feel I deserved." Rachel twisting insides subsided as a strange new feeling emerged inside of her, at least when regarding Quinn Fabray: Curiosity.

"Then why do you do it, if you don't even _care_?" Santana and Brittany were completely forgotten as Quinn turned to face her.

"Because, it's what you do to get on top."

"Of what?" Rachel asked flatly. A snort escaped Santana, who settled on a smirk following the hurried glare Quinn sent her way. Quinn returned to the shorter girl.

"Same thing as you. The difference is, I put up, while you won't _shut_ up." Santana sighed audibly.

"Ding. Ding. I call this round in favor of Bitchy Barbie for the sake of my sanity. Get on with it, or I walk, grade or no grade." Quinn's 4.0 grade average was the one thing Santana could hold over her, and the Latina was smart enough to use it sparingly. Disinterest crossed Quinn's face and she turned back to the group.

"Our story starts in a nameless small town-" Quinn stared at Santana, who remained silent, quitting while she was ahead- "Like many others, in many ways. One nucleus. One town center. One mall, and one school, which is where we'll truly begin." Rachel caught Santana rolling her eyes, Brittany waiting intently, or perhaps staring off into the distance and Quinn's focus dead center between the four of them. Her semi raspy, gentle voice lulled Rachel, tired of being focused on, for once in her life, and for being rife for parody. She just wanted to the enjoy the show for now, and augmented her guilt by telling herself that even the best of the best take in performances, to learn and grow and appreciate, and most of all, _critique_.

"And like most small towns, people have little understanding of the outside world; they're innocent, in an arrogant sort of way. They think it's all just one big adventure, and sometimes, they get a taste, only to find it's nothing like they've been imagining." Santana now looked bored, and Brittany's eyes were beginning to lose focus, her eye lids drooping. Rachel kept her face neutral, partly out of respect for the performer, but mostly to allow Quinn to continue her crappy storytelling, taking glee from her failing, even if the blond couldn't care less.

"So, we settle on a school like McKinley, large, because it educates the entire city's children." Santana interjected, the high from having the last word a few minutes ago having worn off.

"I though it was a small town?"

"What difference does it make?"

"City is bigger than a town."

"The story takes place in a small town that happens to have the only school in the area of the city, okay." Santana nodded, than grinned.

"Only trying to help, Q"

"Stuff it." Santana sighed at the inoffensive insult, and Quinn continued with gritted teeth.

"The school's large, it has many students: some get lost, a lot go unnoticed, and a few are very well liked, or at least feared." Rachel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "But only one", Quinn held her index finger for emphasis, "Is hated." Not a single pair of eyes glanced toward her, but Rachel felt like they were staring nonetheless.

"And they have reason to." Rachel wondered if she should stop this character assassination, when Quinn surprised her. "She's not unattractive, decent, almost, and probably would have been something if it weren't for her _mouth_, backed by an atrocious attitude that screams in your ear when it should whisper to get your attention. Welcome to the awful world of…" Quinn stopped, obviously grasping for a name. If she chose 'Barbra' Rachel would sock her.

"Lucy." Quinn seemed to pause, and looked a little pale. "Her name is Lucy, her last name is unimportant. Lucy is good enough, but she thinks she's great, and people don't like, and they tease her and slush- _throw_ things at her. She's the school whipping girl even for the underclassman, as she's a sophomore, like us." Quinn seems to have found her stride again, and her voice, combined with the surprise Rachel felt at the odd choice of name- she was sure Quinn would pick some derivation of Rachel, Raquel for instance- and the way that Quinn seemed almost sympathetic to her plight even if it was condescendingly so, caused her to let down her guard, only a little, but enough to imagine, and she could see Santana looking with mild interest, perhaps trying to detect some slight against Rachel, and Brittany back from whatever daydream had occupied her, eyebrow raised in curiosity. Rachel could almost picture _Lucy_ a carbon copy of herself, filing in details Quinn had missed, because she couldn't have known….

_It's a beautiful morning… _

Lucy's eyes snapped open- she never woke easily, she was so excited to start the day- and stretched, arms over head, as she sat up, almost like an instant coffee commercial.

The best part of waking up was a fresh day ahead of her, in which an entire world still had not yet the chance to meet her. Not that she was arrogant, but rather she had a whole legion of people yet to meet, that, maybe, wouldn't hate her.

Allowing the alarm to continue playing (it was on a loop, of course) twirling her way to her elliptical, with a big smile on her face, she thought, _Today is going to be a great day, no matter what. _She made a promise to herself to make that declaration come true, just as she did yesterday and the day before. After exercise and a shower, she picked out her clothes, from several possibilities laid out the night before- just because one is efficient, doesn't mean one can't be creative- a cardigan over a blouse and a plaid skirt with flats. After kissing her parents goodbye, she left for Warren G. Harding High.

Large and very… _consistent_, the hallways rather simplistic; the classrooms, even more so. Fearing a sudden round of humiliation, but not wanting to be _that_ much of a coward, she quickly made her way to her first stop of many in her day.

Lucy had joined Astronomy club, because it was a contrast with normally artistic academic endeavors. She had inclinations about the romance of the night sky, and the beauty of the stars, but she doubted that the cheap telescope afforded by the meager budget of the club would offer a very majestic view.

As it was only ten past seven, the classroom was near empty, and of the students that were there most rested their heads on desks or talked amongst themselves, ignoring her save for a few disinterested glares, most of them waiting for first period, and not actually in Astronomy club. However standing apart from the rest was one girl her head aligned with said flimsy star gazing equipment, pointed at the still dark sky, to which Lucy made her way over.

"Hello, Billie. Looking for anything in particular? Perhaps I can be of assis-" Billie looked up from her hunch, a scowl across her slim features, and stood.

"I'm fine, Lucy. I just want to be by myself. Can you let me?" The reply was gruff, but more tolerant that others Lucy had received. Billie's frown and tired eyes were met with a huge smile.

"I'm just curious as to what you're working on." Billie sighed. While no where close to popular herself, she was pretty enough and self aware enough to be mostly left alone, even though at times, she wanted more. Lucy had rarely seen her smile, except for the one time a young teaching assistant, perhaps getting too close in his bit of light flirting, told her she had pretty eyes. Swirls of hazel, tinted with leaf green, Lucy would have to agree, they suited and helped liven the dull blond of her hair, and her entirely too slim figure, causing one less demure female student to label her _boy_ _hips_, generally encased in a summer dress, or now in thicker layers of jeans and a heavy sweater, hung over a chair nearby, and by far her greatest asset, and Lucy didn't mean that depreciatively.

"Fine. If I tell you, will you leave me to my solitude?" Lucy nodded. Gesturing towards the telescope, Billie explained, slightly more eagerly then her prior grumpiness would have suggested. "I'm looking for a particular star, a brilliant blue giant- do you know what that means?" Lucy nodded.

"Well, it's a really bright star, which only lasts for a short while, relative of course to time spans in the universe." Lucy blinked, not realizing when a nod in the affirmative meant _I'm completely clueless. _But Billie seemed to be enjoying herself now and Lucy hated to spoil the moment. "Anyway, it's always been a favorite of mine and I enjoy watching it, even if this telescope is absolutely worthless in displaying detail." Lucy nodded eagerly, and Billie remained quiet. "That's it, Lucy."

"Does it have a name?" Lucy had been hoping to extend their conversation a little while longer, people rarely talked to her without an insult thrown in for good measure. Billie frowned, but nodded.

"Nebuchadnezzar, after the biblical king."

"I see. Any allegorical reference?" Lucy was pushing it, she knew, but couldn't resist. Billie was growing agitated, but couldn't resist explaining the namesake.

"The star is too big and bright for its own good, just like the king, who became arrogant and suffered for it, as the star will, far sooner than its counterparts, reach the end of its life, and go out with a bang. Lucy smiled.

"The best and brightest often do." Billie didn't return the expression, instead waited, obviously for Lucy to leave. The girl tried once more to remove the seemingly immovable Lucy, with one more sacrifice that would allow her the remaining twenty minutes before first bell.

"Would you like to see it?" If it were possible, Lucy smiled wider than before and nodded.

"Oh, that would be excellent, Billie."

"Yeah, well be careful, alright? It's not a toy…. At least it shouldn't be," Billie finished dejectedly.

"Just look through here?" Billie nodded. Lucy squinted, at first seeing a few bright points of light. However, a large blob of light, at least in comparison to the smaller undefined specks, became clear as Lucy's eyes adjusted. Contrary to it's designation as a 'blue giant', the quarter inch blob looked more red than anything, although that could have been her eye having trouble with such a small space to look through. Wondering how Billie did this all day, and apparently was eager to get back too it, as though she found it relaxing, her head began to hurt, although given the possibility of human contact, Lucy did not want to be rude. The blob began to pulse, which Lucy attributed to her unfamiliarity with the equipment. It shifted, and it felt like she had been staring into the sun for a long period. Pulling back a bit she blinked away the rising ache in her temple.

Catching sight of Billie's reflection as she did so, she frowned at the scowling image before her. Lucy decided just one more look, and then to leave well enough alone.

Lucy wasn't sure why she did it; after all it was _shooting_ stars that granted wishes, not very big ones, but the nigh hypnotic, near _gaze_ of the now undulating spot seemed to lull her conscious mind and let her thoughts run free.

_I wish there were more people like me… _she thought as she set her gaze upon the seemingly shimmering light. It trembled in her field of vision, as though it heard her.

Quinn cracked her neck, the loud popping startling Rachel, as she nearly fell out of her seat for the second time in an hour. Santana snorted in derision. Apparently this time, they noticed.

"Looks like the only person you're scaring is treasure trail. You'll have to do better than that; hell you haven't even finished the story. Got nothing left?" Quinn let go of a long breath.

"I'm taking a moment, Santana. I'm allowed to, since I'm the only one doing any real work around here." Santana rolled her eyes, and made the 'blah, blah, blah' motion with her hand, though mostly to make Brittany laugh. It worked.

"As I was saying-"

"About the little evil light blobby?" It was Brittany who spoke up this time, although Santana seemed more interested in Quinn's response. Quinn swallowed. While Quinn and Santana's relationship was their own private cold war, a mean word to Brittany would very much heat it up. On the one side, Rachel wanted to finish this assignment the way it was supposed to be, and things had turned out better than she had thought, which was her doing the work, while the Unholy Trinity dug through her things looking for fodder to humiliate her. On the other side, however, that would be t the very least a quick and less torturous end to a day that seemed to carry on indefinitely, Rachel waiting for things to go south, and in her home no less, a pitiful sanctuary for a teenager, but the only one she had. She would be devastated to lose it.

So, if things devolved into a catfight, right the worse that would happen is a little bit of work on her end, the lesser of two evils.

"Yes, Britt. The _evil blobby of light_, the star Nebuchadnezzar, and Lucy's ill fated wish." Santana leaned back, and the tension in the room dissipated, Rachel quietly letting go of a breath she didn't realize she had been holding, because of relief or disappointment, she wasn't sure. Settling in, Rachel tried to regain her concentration on the story from before, and found herself restless, having hoped that the ordeal had been over…

Lucy continued to each and every club, as she held some sort of position of authority in each, the lowest being treasurer. These positions were held not in any esteem from the other students but rather with shuffling the work away from themselves and to someone else, who clearly had nothing better to do.

On her mind, however, was the incident with Billie. Certainly, Billie could have been kinder, yes; but she had shared a small bit of her world, and now, Lucy wanted more. In the course of her day, she had gum stuck to her backpack, the contents of a trash bin dumped over her head, and then had to clean up said trash, and been the sole target in a food fight that was something more akin to a massacre.

Lucy craved more; her wish epitomized that, people who could understand her, who would like her, who wouldn't force her to choose between excellence and (positive) human contact. _Well, a girl can dream, can't she?_

A jock chose this moment to dump his lunch tray on her rather than the garbage can beside her. Lucy had received her answer. Shutting her eyes from the sting of ranch salad dressing mixed with milk, a deep blackness clouded her vision, as the light was pushed from her pupils. She shut her eyes so tight, that a dull ache began to pound in her head, and built up, starting to burn, a small multicolored dot forming in the center of the inky cloud, shifting from bright red to dull blue green, to a sharper cerulean. The colors were almost hypnotic, were it not for the sharp, revolving pain beating against her skull. Evenly split by the escape from her surroundings and the near unbearable pain, she finally decided to open her eyes, the growing murmur of students in the lunchroom, too threatening to ignore. It seemed a new food fight had broken out, and she wondered why she had asked to be cafeteria monitor in the first place, damn her college transcript. Lucy blinked.

Now that was just blasphemy.

Turning to the swirling mass revolving about a center nucleus of some poor soul being beaten into the ground with all manner of stale fruit, unappealing bits of food squashed into unrecognizable mounds into the figure that was currently bombarded.

It was the jock who had treated her like a dumpster. Standing over them, watching the mayhem, Lucy swallowed against a certain uneasy glee that bubbled inside of her, not wanting to take pleasure in someone else's torment, she was above that. still, she felt her mouth twitch into a little grin, and her spirits lift a little, instantly feeling guilty and exposed. However few were looking and even less if any were paying attention, until Lucy blew her 'assault' whistle (infamously known as the most _unused_ instrument in all of existence, so that it was practically rusted over.) Several teachers rushed over, causing the crowd to disperse, leaving a mass of trash, and a humiliated hockey player. Taking a chance she offered her hand to the hockey player in order for him to stand, expecting a glare. Instead she got a mumbled thanks and an awkward attempt to get up, sliding on something that almost made Lucy dry heave. The jock was lead to the nurse and mumbled another thank you, which she relished.

Lucy walked a divide of crushing loneliness and the painfully focused attention of her classmates. Either she was invisible or unable to shake their seeming wrath. She tried as best she could to use either to her advantage, but it seemed that she was playing at a loss, and playing was the right word; her attempts at a social life amounted to nothing more than overly complex strategy games for her, and a round of hot potato for them, with her as the starchy root.

For once though, it wasn't about her, and for once that divide played in her favor, she had been invisible enough to get no vitriol from an angry jock, and yet in a situation where she could interact with somebody, if only for a few seconds.

Lucy floated on air for the rest of the day.

When it happened again, Lucy felt a little guilty, feeling responsible, although she couldn't figure a reason why. Her suggestion to begin a debate club had fallen on deaf ears, or rather apathetic hearts and minds, and Lucy did not appreciate the irony. After a seeming eternity of silence, something twisted inside of her gut, and Lucy felt tears begin to push at the back of her eyes. Rounding a corner, she took deep breaths, but she felt her eyes water, and delicately closing her eyes to avoid the waterworks, screwing them shut after she felt a line trace itself down her cheek, and a small burst of salt in her mouth, in frustration. Again the colors raged in darkness, a single spheroid pulsing blue then green, then turquoise, then finally a vibrating red, as the pain forced her to open her eyes, and her sight taking a few seconds to return. After the haze cleared, Lucy rubbed her eyes, enjoying the relief as the ache dulled and receded. As the last of the throbbing went, she heard a shout of anger. Looking around, Lucy saw a group gathered around the student council president, there guiding the commission of a wall mural, her clothes dripping with bright blue paint, which Lucy knew, from experience, would leave an after hue like a Smurf.

"Didn't you see me there?!" screeched the otherwise impeccable girl. The boy holding a depleted can stared in shock. From the position he was standing, Lucy agreed; there was no way he could have missed her.

_Granted he didn't, did he? _Lucy shook her head at the unkind thought. Making her way over as 'paint can kid fled', she offered a hand.

"Need some help? I'm kind of an expert." The jock was one thing- getting ambushed would make anyone appreciative of some help, but being covered in paint, surely, would give cause to lash out, especially if the school loser thought it alright to approach her.

"Yes, thank you." Lucy numbly guided the girl to the bathroom, taking care to not push or be too forceful, partly fearful that the girl would realize that Loser Lucy was touching her, partly fearful that this was her fault, even though she couldn't explain how, or why.

The third time, she didn't care. Her golden chain, which she had set aside during gym, was missing. A couple of the basketball players made it obvious, staring at her, grinning, as she searched her bag. She demanded that they hand it over. They shrugged. Then, in total inconsistency, they decided to play a game of keep away with it, tossing it between the three of them, ignoring her pleas to give it back. Finally, Lucy managed to snag a side, trying to pull it away, but another had grabbed it, and tried to pull, and suddenly, she was in a tug of war, staring into the face of an obstinate jock, who, unlike his bored comrades, found it an insult to himself to relinquish what was rightfully hers. Finally, the precious metal slipped from his greasy paws, and Lucy clutched the chain to her chest, the boy joining his friends with a dismissive wave of his hands.

Lucy found that where before the chain was cold, whenever it pressed against her skin, it was soothing, was now warm, with _his body heat_, and Lucy was disgusted by the thought, although she placed the chain back on her neck, she felt violated. Sliding to the floor, she shut her eyelids with all the force she could muster, squeezing them until she felt a sharp shooting pain through her skull, bearable, but only so tolerable, and pushed harder, feeling her face scrunch and twist with effort, her hand balled into fists to stem the pain.

Quite faster now, the ball appeared, quickly neatened out into a near perfect circle and flashed green, blue, red, back to blue green, into the darkness with a rusty orange and shifted ever so often, as the pain coursed through her temples, becoming so dense, and deafening, that the throbbing shifted down her neck to her stomach, billowing out like smoke, as nausea, and still Lucy held on, because she realized, she wanted that jock to suffer, his indignation punished, his arrogance crushed, atomized, and pictured all sorts of vague perils, cars smacking into ribcages, rapidly upwards moving pavements crashing into his falling form, fire burning, water drowning, slow, painful deaths, no, _ends,_ destruction, disassembly, finishing with his irrelevance being made clear, _crystal clear, transparently so_, that no one cared.

Finally, Lucy let go, but gritted her aching teeth as the pain peaked once more, before receding, ebbing away, leaving a budding headache, and shortness of breath as mementos of her rage.

"Quinn."

The girl swallowed, and glanced at Santana, who was frowning. Quinn's knuckles were white against the Berry's countertop, and flushed with color when she let go. As pale as she was, the difference was notable.

"I'm not finished, S." The Latina's frown only deepened, and Brittany joined her. Rachel kept her face neutral, as Quinn now resembled a cornered animal, ready to strike if approached anymore. Still her curiosity bubbled, as much as she suspected 'Lucy' was supposed to resemble herself, this seemed personal to Quinn, and her eyes couldn't help but fall to the golden cross adorning the hazel eyed freshman's neck. Those hazel eyes snapped to meet Rachel's and glared.

"What are you looking at, _Manhands_?" Rachel looked over to Quinn's fellow cheerios. Neither of the two laughed, or so much as smiled at the nickname, and Rachel took this as a grave sign.

"Just waiting for you to continue the story, Quinn. The girl nodded, almost imperceptibly so, and than began once more.

Lucy had found out later that day, the jock who had accosted her, she hadn't got his name, and to her disturbed surprise, _no one_ could remember it, had broken his arm in an accident 'or something' as the people she had asked had put it. Lucy had to see the jock come in, left arm broken, the arm he had grabbed her necklace with, in a cast, and miserably maneuver to class. Struggling with the impact of her actions, and feeling terrible for the lack of reward for her efforts to befriend her classmates, it took a while to realize there was no tightness in her chest, or pain in her gut. She was ambivalent, apathetic at best.

_Gleeful_ at worst.

It became habit after that. Any slight against her, gave her grounds to work her apparent voo-doo like powers, only, using herself as the doll; she would suffer, and so would someone nearby, perhaps even the assaulter him or herself, if she concentrated, was angry enough, and usually, that individual's injury would be all the more grievous for her efforts.

Lucy ignored that, as she had ignored the randomness of her prior targets. Together the two epochs in this ill defined ability canceled out any negative feelings, and washed away in a bit of mental blurriness that in it's self made her feel more guilty than forcing the cheerleader to hobble for the rest of the semester because she called her some name that she had since forgotten, and no longer cared about.

_The name, of course, not the girl, _she assured herself.

After all, this was all for the benefit of making friends. She was endearing herself to them, being there when popularity became fickle, despite the fact they never returned the same benefit, and when one crossed the line she had every right to express what she was feeling, especially to herself. It wasn't her fault that this was happening; she never asked for it, her brief episodes of red hot anger were her only sanctum, her only way to tolerate her fellow classmates. And if something happened…it was their own fault, not Lucy's.

_Still, I need to know how this is happening. For knowledge's sake, if anything. _It didn't take long for her to connect the one similarity, besides herself: The sphere that appeared before her when she shut her eyes, flashing undulating, almost obscenely so.

_Like the star._ Lucy frowned, attempting to remember the name. _Nebuchadnezzar, _flashed into her mind, like an idea, all of a sudden, and Lucy knew she hadn't remembered it on her own. She needed answers. Reiterating to herself, she had done nothing wrong, she had to find out what Billie knew about the star, about what was going on. It was about prudence, and if Lucy was anything, she was prudent.

_In this school I have to be._ Setting off to find the amateur astronomer, Lucy gave one last look at the crowded hall, full of students, a decent, but not quite noticeable (unless you had a hand in them) percentage of which were sporting some fresh accident or another.

_Really, I've done nothing wrong._

The blonde girl was not hard to find, in her usual place during a free period: sitting in the makeshift astronomy 'lab' fiddling with the limited controls on her worthless telescope, which it was, both worthless and hers, no one else even used the thing to peep through windows.

Lucy waited patiently, with a scowl, while Billie ignored her, flipping through a worn copy of the _Index of the Universe_, out of date, and occasionally glancing at the brunette, hoping the girl would get the hint and leave. Lucy understood, but did not leave. Instead, when Billie turned the telescope towards the blue-and therefore unreadable-sky, Lucy roughly grabbed the cylinder and twisted it away, causing the other girl to look up, murder in her eyes.

"Let it go." A simple request that was more of a command, low and said through gritted teeth. Lucy glared back.

"You can't see anything! It's daytime!"

"I need to adjust the instrument." Billie's voice, still low, caused several spirals of incredulity to rise up in Lucy.

"It's a _toy, _Billie," her voice just as low, "see?" Lucy took the blue tube off its stand, and hurled it, to Billie's horror, across the room. Instead of shattering, like both girls expected, the glass inside, the telescope bounced against a supply cabinet, making a hollow sound, before finally tumbling to the floor, protected by its bulky casing.

"It's shatter proof," Billie said, numbly, "what kind of telescope doesn't break from being thrown across a room?"

"A _child's_." Billie turned to Lucy upon hearing her blunt response, tiredly, defeated.

"What do you want?"

"Some information." Billie waited. Lucy continued. "The star, the one you showed me the other day…"

"When you invited yourself, yes I remember." Apparently Billie wasn't as defeated as previously thought. Lucy paid no mind to the jab, determined to get her information.

"Right. Nebuchadnezzar. Anything…odd about it?" Billie's eyed gleamed, and Lucy frowned.

"Like everyone who's mean to you getting it worse, ten fold? Like that, Lucy?" The girl blinked, frozen otherwise. Billie continued, taking retribution for her disturbed peace. "Are you so conceited, that you thought no one would put two and two together? These people…they're morons, sure, but you're not above them. And the only reason they haven't said anything? They're scared of you." Lucy raised her eyebrows.

"And you're not?" Billie smirked.

"I sit here staring at stars, and the blackness of space, I have almost no friends and I wish I were anywhere else but here, truly I do. But, if I were afraid of someone as pathetic as you? I'd end my life _myself_. So, really, it doesn't make a difference-do your _worse_." Lucy saw, just for a second, Billy's eyes twitch, as if to wince, but hold still. Her fists balled on there own, and Lucy took in a shaky breath, staring Billie down. The other girl didn't flinch again.

"I just want to understand this, okay?" Billie got up to retrieve her telescope. She paused to look at Lucy.

"Understand what? You know what you're doing, and a giant ball of gas millions upon millions of miles away has nothing to do with it. You're evil, Lucy. _Wrong_." Billie cradled the telescope, clutching it close to her chest, as though it would give her strength. "Just like everyone else here, you're no better. Now get out." Billie took her seat once more, and reset her telescope, never sparing the standing girl another glance.

As much as she wanted to, she couldn't muster the will to do…whatever she did. She wasn't angry. She was surprisingly _empty_, and so she left.

As night fell, Lucy sat in her room, dinner finished an hour ago, staring at the wall. Her attempts had failed, and that meant her actions were no longer sacrosanct. Really, she was just a bully, then. Lucy sighed. _A vicious one, at that._ Getting up from her bed, to peer out the window, up at the moon, the only thing visible, reminding her of her unseen enemy by its glaring absence, and that of it's compatriots, hiding from the banality of light from a close by city.

_Unseen enemy? _She had gotten what she asked for, hadn't she?

_I didn't ask…_. Who was she kidding? _Literally, who am I kidding? No one knows, they think I'm psychotic; why be facetious?_ Up at the moon, brown eyes stared intently, Lucy allowed her vision to blur, re-focus, and blur again.

While the stars were not visible, the lights blinked in and out of focus along with the moon. When blurred, even the red hue of neon blended with the blue of a faraway radio station. The individual lights formed a seemingly solid band of some color akin to coral, fusing with the hue of her eyelids as she squinted at the artificial glow.

Fear wasn't what she wanted; understanding was. That first time, with the football player, was when Lucy felt god, in a very long while. And while she would attest that those who she visited some artificial karma upon were deserving, it hadn't felt as good as that first time. Lucy stood still, letting her train of thought metastasize solidify, so that she wouldn't lose it.

_They don't get me. He did. What it feels like. When everyone piles on, unaware that someone else has just had their full. _Lucy frowned- that time, she offered a bit of help, like the second, but without the…_understanding_ that she was making these things happen. That first time, she was just like everyone else, and she had been kind, and been rewarded. Now to recreate it.

_It's a beautiful morning…_

Lucy rose, went about her routine with a bit more pep in her step. While details were her forte, she always saw the maltreatment of others as something to be endured. _Now_ _I know better_.

She saw the other students slide and scatter away from her. _They would understand soon enough. _The day progressed normally, and the excitement bubbling inside of her numbed her of the need to wait. Waiting until the hallways had emptied and all alone, she made her way to the stair well, climbing purposefully, but slowly, in case she had to duck into a floor, if someone saw her.

Fortunately, she reached the roof unabated, and with a key, as she was president of the greenhouse society, and slipped unto the top of the building, the sky already dark , the winter wind whipping up. Tilting her head up, she could seen the faint twinkle of stars, a dim blue but attractive relative to the bleak sky.

Focusing all her attention on the shifting points of light, the wind blowing in her hair, should have been chilling, but was oddly relaxing, as she stared blindly into the abyss above her, the buildings on the edge giving the impression that the sky above her was a gaping maw; she was to surrender herself to the beast.

She let her eyes shut, almost too tired to continue, lulled into a sense of serenity, but screwed them shut against her reluctance. The familiar dull ache mounted in her skull, the flashing orb appearing only a second or two later. Her haziness vanished in the heat of the pain, as it built in intensity. Feeling her face scrunch up in concentration, and against the strain, pictured her desire, her _wish _and allowed the sharp stabbing between her eyes to pound a few more times, along with a few more revolutions of orb, once twice, three times, before letting go, opening her eyes to dissipating blackness as her vision returned.

She was slightly startled by how dark it had become. The stars twinkled, gray, cold, especially when Lucy remembered how _Nebuchadnezzar_ seemed to glow, even when seen through the cheap scope. Staring about her, the silence made her nervous, and she blamed it on her fear of getting caught, hurrying down the stairwell, after locking the door behind her. only slightly less cautious than when going up those steps she reached the lobby and slipped past the few after school activities and clubs that were held in the auditorium and gymnasium, back out into the chilly, rapidly approaching freezing, feeling as though she had done something wrong, the sensation was so sudden.

_It's a beautiful morning…_

The lyric was made a liar by the gray, dreary mourn, and Lucy did not immediately get out of bed, instead staring out at it, as it seemed ominous. It was only when her parents knocked on her door a few minutes later that she got ready for school. It was nearly an hour later, she realized that her parents never got up before her.

The rest of Lucy's day was equally strange. She noticed students who always slept through their classes wide awake, reverently paying attention. Those that smoked and drank on the quad were absent, and those that crowded the bathroom and made using them a brief type of hell, were no where to be found, she presumed, just like the rest: sitting dutifully in their seats.

The teachers, likewise, seemed more enthusiastic, almost maniacally so; as much as it bothered her, she had to admit that some of their behavior reminded her of her own _zest_. Certainly some of these individuals would use a different word to describe her perkiness, but yet here they were. Lucy felt a frown grow along her face.

Her unease didn't abate as the day went on. Rather, a sort of filmy panic formed on the edges of her consciousness, as she felt herself marginalized, pushed to the background, as her fellow students swarmed every chance to answer every question, perform every duty in every club, and take on any hobby or activity the school had to offer, with the faculty all too happy to let them.

A single happy, enthusiastic, _perky_ organism, except for Lucy. And-

"I know what you did," said Billie, one day that seemed like an eternity after. Lucy had tried to undo what she had done, but it felt futile; she couldn't muster the strength, the will power to see the revolving light, it seemed as thought some glare entered the space behind her eyelids, golden, flippant, _merry, taunting even_.

"What?"

"I know what you did. I saw you go on the roof. I saw, but you didn't see me." Billie sounded a bit manic, a bit giddy, as though she was drunk.

"I-"

"You made them this way. Made _me_ this way." Billie tugged miserably at a strand of blond hair, now to Lucy's shock, had begun to turn chestnut, the colors bleeding into each other, the latter winning out. Hazel eyes were nearly brown now, dull, lifeless in appearance, and Lucy, honestly found her stomach lurch.

It was like staring at her reflection, if her reflection was horrified.

_Lucy's _face twisted into a snarl, and _Lucy's _voice became harsh, whispering in pained delight,

"You know, everyone prays, and makes wishes and hopes that God can hear them?" Lucy backed up, hitting a swing door leading to a staircase. Billie, now almost identical to Lucy, save for a small spark of malice dancing in the doppelganger's eyes, stepped forward, and whispered, right into the girl's ear,

"_The Devil hears them too." _Lucy shivered then, violently, bumping in to the door jamb behind her; Billie-Lucy grinned wider. "This is what you wanted, this is what you wished for: that everyone be like you, so that you wouldn't be alone? I figured it out. But guess what you didn't? If everyone's _alike_, than everyone's the _same_- right down to your angry little self who wishes for things like this," the Lucy duplicate gestured around her, at the shimmering waves of brown hair, long and indiscriminate, congruent, "and I can wish _too_." There was a pause and Lucy finally realized how precarious a situation she was in , the door swung slightly outward, and Lucy began to lose her balance, her weight, slight though it, was caused the door to give way, and as she fell, she found herself saddened to lose sight of her mirror image, as her gaze filled with the sight of numerous Lucy's, all seeing, and yet all blind, vanishing once more, like the first, as an impact, the stair steps, obviously, connected with the base of skull,

"and once more, she saw the orb, frozen, fading, taking with it her conscious mind, to parts unknown…"

The sound of skittering wood on tile caused Quinn and Santana to start slightly.

"The fuck Berry?" Santana looked irritated. Rachel didn't answer. Instead the girl turned on her heel and walked out the kitchen door, slamming it shut behind her.

The trinity stared, looking at her retreating form thought the curtain framed window.

"Now what." Brittany seemed slightly agitated, and her usual monotone had a certain tightness to it, was almost curt.

"Quinn goes to handle the mess she made?" Santana chimed helpfully, to Brittany's inquisitive, or somewhat blank, stare and the mentioned individual's scowl.

"Why would we need her?"

"Because," Brittany replied sagely, before Santana could shoot her mouth off, "then we'll have to do the work of four with three, and give Rachel credit."

"We say she didn't participate. We tried."

"Rachel has a reputation as good student, and an even harder worker. We say that and we'll be exposed as liars and Coach Sylvester will be angry."

"Besides," Santana added, "'_Mr. Kotter' _back there won't be happy even if he believed us." Brittany nodded in agreement. Quinn held their gaze; it was pointless to argue their logic, but perhaps she could stare the two down, pulling rank as Coach Sylvester's favorite. It didn't work.

"Fine." Quinn followed Rachel out into the Berry's backyard. Well maintained, the spacious lot, not as large as Quinn's own, had a curious mix of remnants; lush grass was returning as it was almost April, and unnaturally warm this time of the year, with indentations indicated that various pieces were displayed on the lawn, maybe a sculpture a fountain, it looked like to Quinn, who figured gay men who were well to do wouldn't be fond of lawn gnomes, or pink flamingos. These places were faded, the grass growing over the dirt patches, sparsely but visibly. There were wider patches, mostly rectangular, newer, but not by much, the ground was still flat, a bit of sparse granules sifting in and out of the boundaries. Quinn hypothesized a sandbox, a kiddie pool, maybe a slide- two rectangles, with half filled notches for holes for a ladder and Quinn wondered if the would be swing set somewhere, before being confronted with the structure, the only of its compatriots to remain, one of its seats occupied by a sulking Rachel Berry. Quinn trotted over, hands in her letterman, stopping at the triangular support. Rachel's head was bowed, her right hand wrapped around a chain link, bangs covering her eyes, making Quinn a bit uneasy, things were too quiet.

"Time to go inside, Berry. You're mad, we get it." A scoff emanated from somewhere near Rachel's mouth.

"That's good. Now say, '_We are legion, for we are many_.'"

"What?"

"I thought you might appreciate the biblical reference, being president of the celibacy club, and all."

"The Cheerios are not pig demons!"

"If you say so."

"Berry, don't be difficult. You're acting like a child."

"I'm acting like a human being. I was insulted, ergo, I'm offended."

"You're acting like you're hurt."

"So what if I am?" Rachel's tone was unreadable, as best Quinn could tell it was either a threat or a genuine inquiry.

"It was a joke. Besides, it was true."

"Or '_resistance is futile.'_"

"Star Trek?"

"Patrick Stewart is a distinguished thespian, Quinn. It travels through all his works."

"It's disturbing how you can link everything to theater."

"Leave me alone, please."  
"Enough with the martyr act." Rachel stood.

"Are you accusing me of feeling hurt, or _pretending_ to be hurt?"

"Berry-

"_Rachel_."

"_Berry_."

"It is one thing not to be friendly, but at least you could call me by my given name."

"No." Quinn's response was as simple as the outrage that followed was inevitable. Rachel awkwardly slipped off the swing, and thought in retrospect how that was not the best place to make a dramatic blocking, and angry with herself for failing an essential element of stage direction, even if Rachel was besieged in her own house, and not actually acting, whirled to face her irritator.

"Why Quinn, _why_? Why do you persist? Is it hate? Envy? Could it be disgust? Because I assure you, I want to be your friend, so why do you continue?" Quinn stared.

"Because I want to." Rachel Berry was rendered speechless.

Back inside the house, Brittany and Santana stared at the seen, voices muffled, but audible. Santana frowned, before turning to Brittany, but speaking mostly to herself. "Did they just quote _The Matrix?"_

Brittany shrugged, turning away from the conflict outside and trotted past the kitchen, into the living room, plopping down on the couch. "My money's on man-hands- Q's pushing it, and her ice queen shit doesn't work when you push someone to meltdown, you know, Britt? Britt?" Santana noticed she was alone, and hesitated after seeing the blue eyed girl in the adjourning room, who waved to her, and motioned for her to come. Padding along, Santana stood before the blonde apprehensively.

"Britt, I don't think we should be in here." Brittany rested against the back, and looked up innocently.

"She wants to be a good host. She left us cookies. Besides, I think she's occupied." Santana followed the girl's gaze past her, out the window. No longer able to hear the other blond and brunette, all either of them saw were Quinn's arms crossed along her chest, while Rachel's mouth and hands moved animatedly. "So I thought I could tell you my story while we wait, so you can do what you want, 'cause I want you feel free to do that." Brittany smiled at her, and the Latina tilted her head inquisitively. For a brief moment, Santana though that Brittany had manipulated this scenario: Quinn outside with Rachel, and the two of them all alone inside. Her stare was returned, and Santana found herself nodding.

"Great. Sit on my lap." _Then again…._

"What?"

"Sit on my lap."

"Why, Britts?"

"Because I want to tell you a story. A scary story, in fact. My grandma always told me stories on her lap, and for a scary story that goes double."

"It's different for us B."

"Is it?"

"It's not that bad."

"If we weren't having sex, which half the Cheerios are with each other, we wouldn't be any different than any two girls at McKinley.

"We're friends." Brittany sighed, looking down.

"I'm friends with a lot of people, and I've done it with a lot more."

"So, I'm just another notch?"

"I don't want you to be." Santana glanced towards the door.

"Berry and Q will be in here in a few minutes…." On seeing the girl lower her head, quickly added, "so, you should start your story, then, B." Slipping quickly as the blonde perked up, Santana adjusted herself awkwardly on the taller girl's lap, and for the sake of not falling on her ass, threw an arm around Brittany's neck, as she in turn snaked a limb around her waist. Even though Santana was on top of Brittany, the first girl was barely a head above the latter.

"Comfy?" Brittany chirped. Santana swallowed thickly, skin prickling into goose bumps where it overlapped unto Brittany's. Drawing in a short, but deep, breath, she nodded.

"Yeah." Laying a hand on Santana's, of which Santana was suddenly aware, very bare leg, and smiled.

"Good. So, my idea, is that the story should be _gothic_." Santana blinked.

"Gothic?" Brittany hummed in the affirmative, and Santana didn't have time to ponder how that word wondered into her vocabulary, as she began to absently trace a pattern on her leg, circling her thumb and forefinger in a vague infinity symbol like path. "It means creepy, but only a little, a bit less than when you freaked out because Lord Tubbington stared at you during."

"Uh-huh." Santana would have countered that the cat threw off her 'mojo', but was using the majority of her focus to keep her body from stiffening under Brittany's touch.

"So I thought about on the ride over, and thought a detective story would work, but a spooky one." Santana managed to shift her attention for a moment.

"Like a noir?"

"Isn't that like, a fancy closet?" Brittany was focused on her tracing, head down. Santana screwed her face in concentration, before understanding.

"_Armoire._ Never mind. No, a noir is like, a mystery novel, really dark and suspenseful." Brittany lifted her head and paused her pattern.

"Thanks, S. I like it when you explain things." A wide smile made Santana return a grin of her own.

"Sure, B." After a fortuitous look outside to see Quinn and Rachel on either side of a swing set staring each other down, Santana set about rolling her eyes, and she sunk back into Brittany's embrace, assured that neither would be disturbing them; Rachel could never back down and Quinn's indifference was nigh limitless. Watching them made her tired, and she snuggled on Brittany's shoulder, as she began her story.

"It's called…." Brittany stopped and wondered if she was pushing the envelope with her act. She _had _had a hard time processing things sometimes, and an incredibly easy experience others, but was then stymied when she tried to tell others. Santana seemed most endeared to her when she was helping her, giving her an excuse to be close. One more time couldn't hurt, could it? "What's it called when everything's in black and white?" Santana thought, a bit peeved at the effort, but managed a response.

"_Monochrome_," she replied definitively.

"Right. And like that, all the color is wrapped up, hidden, if you will, within each other, trying to get away from the blackness," Brittany caught Santana's wince at her politically incorrect statement and giggled, "sorry, _darkness,_ getting away from the darkness that's around. Or, maybe, trying to find each other." Santana squinted at her, sensing something amiss, but was too sedate to care. "In a big city, Chicago, or New York perhaps, with a lot of dark corners, even though they're both very round, where the night can make you its bitch." Santana laughed. "Night is, _nice_ here, romantic, where two colors, two people, can meet…" Brittany glanced down at Santana, who's eyes were lidded, but snapped back up to see why Brittany had stopped, and the blonde let loose the word lingering on her tongue, which seemed perfect in this moment.

"_Serendipitously_."

"Is she any good?"

"Would I hire her on as a consultant if she weren't?"

"Some people are just good enough to get in the door, you know." Two sets of eyes, one dark, almost obsidian, the other a nigh whitish gold, turned toward the seated woman across from them, their hushed whispers just jarring enough to bring to concern their visitor, and whether she disliked being talked about as if not there. Captain Braefay, known to the other standing occupant of the room, Detective Maria Llorona, as 'Queenie', cleared her throat.

"Ms.-"

"Doctor" The captain faltered, but recovered in an instant.

"Yes, Doctor Pierce, correct?"

"Yes. _Doctor_ Susan Pierce, in the field of unusual anthropological phenomena. I would believe your…_situation_ would qualify."

"Damn straight," remarked the detective, earning a look from her captain, and an unreadable gaze from the good doctor.

"Any suggestions, then? Preferably before our situation becomes a catastrophe?"

"Don't be melodramatic, Q, there's a homicide division for a reason; never a year goes by without someone killing someone- it's the nature of the beast."

"Yes well, this particular beast may be particularly…beastly."

"Good one, Q."

"Actually if I could say something?" _Queenie_ and Maria turned to the doctor. "It seems that the incidents described are decidedly…human."

"Yes well, I don't very think that an animal would _dismember a body_." The doctor smiled.

"That's not what I meant. These crimes revolve around the taboo of post mortem mutilation; a fascination with carrion. It's a human _sacred_ _cow_ so to speak, to give the dead some vestige of dignity we would spare them in life. And whoever this is not complying with the social order."

"Are you saying we're all just prudes who should get on the psycho's bandwagon?" Maria asked, a bit too confrontationally for friendly banter.

"No, I'm saying that this individual is aware of the effect such actions have on you, the public. And unlike an animal, brimming with some as of yet undefined intelligence, this person is predictable and responds to societal norms, albeit in a counter cultural way." Maria was quiet after that. The captain nodded.

"So…traceable?" The doctor returned the affirmative gesture. "How?"

"That would take more time to explain…perhaps it would be best to do so with the detective I'll be working with?" Captain gestured to Detective Llorona.

"_Good_ _luck_." Maria scowled, and then turned to face the doctor as the captain left.

"You're rather familiar."

"Me and Queenie? Yeah, we're old high school buddies…Q's just more adept at that whole political thing, I guess."

"And you're better at the actual policing?" Maria shifted, defensive over her friend, but hesitant to jump to conclusions and make a fool of herself again.

"Q can hold her own, don't worry."

"I'm not." The woman paused. "Perhaps we could take this elsewhere?" Suspicious as ever, but eager to leave the cramped office, Maria nodded.

"Anywhere in mind?"

The watering hole that Doctor Pierce settled on-it seemed as though she were looking for something, and found it, but with some reservations. Sitting at a booth in the back, neon sign above them, conspicuous, the tucked away location combined making them blend in, despite flaxen hair that was almost white in its tint, regal almost, among the bleach bottle blonds and brunettes that mulled about.

"Tell me more."

"'Bout what?"

"The murders, silly." Maria frowned. That had been almost…flirtatious, if not altogether too familiar. When Queenie assigned her the task of being the department's liaison for outside help, Maria did it as a friend and as an interested party for the bonus, really, she had no interest in the case, for the exact reason, ironically, that Doctor Pierce had stated: whoever this was, was not unique, or special for that matter, or very good; an odd designation for a serial killer, but an apt one; none of the attempts were risky, and quite frankly, it doesn't take much work. If you're willing to do a little mutilation, than the press will print your name, in fact they'll give them one. Maria wasn't impressed, and told the doctor so.

"My work is more than just the outlier, Detective," and her tone suggested that Maria had been too dismissive; "it's about the impact they have. You're right, though, the anomaly, isn't very complex, or important. But even small changes can have a big effect."

"Anomaly?"

"An unexplained or unknown event, or entity, in this case."

"I know what it means." Doctor Pierce smiled.

"It helps me to talk things out. Speaking of help, what about the victim typology?"

"It's all over the place," Maria said, glad to be able to discuss something they both felt was important, and elusive enough that she wouldn't feel outclassed this time."

"It is a pickle." Glancing down at the detective's almost empty bottle, she asked, "Another one?" Maria stared at the bottle distrustfully.

"We probably shouldn't be drinking on the job." The doctor tilted her head.

"Do you always draw such distinctions as black and white, or am I special?" Maria blinked.

"We're discussing a case, aren't we?"

"And haven't you thought about, researched, or felt about a case while under the influence? I, for one think better with a little scotch and soda, hmm?"

"Me too," Santana remarked, shifting to peel herself off Brittany, who let go with just a little resistance. Her legs had been going a bit numb and stiff. "Want to see if I can jimmy the Berry's liquor cabinet?" Brittany was confused.

"How do you know if they have a liquor cabinet?"

"Two gay guys, living with man-hands? I'm surprised they don't have the stuff pumped in through an intravenous drip." Santana let the word roll off her tongue, as if the idea made her especially happy. Brittany nodded along with this logic, conceding. "Are Q and Berry still fighting?" Brittany took a look outside. Rachel appeared to be crying, sitting in the swing, while Quinn looked incredibly uncomfortable, hands in the pockets of her letterman staring in the other direction.

"I think they like each other now." Santana looked up from a massive mahogany cabinet.

"Really?" she went to see for herself.

"No," said Brittany flatly, and then brightly, "That was sarcasm" Santana smiled, and then laughed.

"Good one, B." approaching the cabinet once more, she pulled out a paper clip, preparing to bend into a hook. Brittany frowned.

"Santana, stop." Santana sighed.

"Look Britt, I needs me a drink. I'm not an alcoholic, I'm not 'drowning my feelings', seriously, no more day time talk for you, and I'll take the cheap stuff, so Berry's dads won't freak out _too_ much. Sound good?" Brittany shook her head, and before she could respond, reached up to pull the cabinet door open, revealing a variety of liquids in fine crystal tumblers and vessels, below which stood a few half empty bottles, broken by the occasional unopened wine bottle.

"It's open," Brittany remarked, after a beat. Santana was dumbfounded.

"They just leave they're liquor out in the open?"

"Rachel probably wouldn't take any, there's no need," Brittany reasoned.

"What if friends came over?"

"I don't think she has any." Brittany looked thoughtful. "It's sad, S." Santana snorted.

"It's pathetic, is what it is."

"Same difference." The girls exchanged looks and burst out laughing. Santana managed to find what she was looking for: an opened bottle of cheap malt scotch, halfway gone. She handed it to Brittany.

"Thirsty?" The blond shrugged, unscrewed the cap-it was cheap, and took a swig, wincing as she did.

"Straight from the bottle?" Another shrug.

"We _are_ going to finish it." She passed it back to Santana, who grinned.

"Damn straight." The two padded back to the living room, Brittany in the lead, Santana being less reluctant to take her place in the taller cheerleader's lap, looking very much infantile-although Brittany kept this opinion to herself-nursing the bottle of scotch.

"So, Britts, your Grandma ever drink with you?"

"Sometimes." Santana choked on her mouthful.

"You're joking, right?"

"Never mind. I want to get back to the story." Santana settled after another fiery gulp, and stared, waiting for her to continue.

"You're not….special." Maria finished lamely. Gazing at the tinted glass of her second beverage nearly cleared of its fluid.

"Good. I was getting the sense you don't like me very much."

"Let's just focus on the case, okay?" Doctor Pierce nodded, taking another sip of her drink.

"So, no patterns, or suspects. That's good then."

"Because that means….?"

"You're catching on. It means that our target is doing this to attract attention."

"And needs individuals that can be killed, and can be found."

"Exactly. So, a local, someone with knowledge of not only the surroundings but demographics, too."

"….sounds like a cop." Both women paused, until the doctor took another drink, deeper than the last.

"Possible. Logical, even. But let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"You're the one drinking like you're trying to forget."

"Just thirsty."

Santana pulled away.

"Brittany…" The girl simply tightened her grip, partly to hold on to the girl who had backed to the edger of her lap, and partly out of fear of Santana fleeing.

"You did say you let me tell you a story," Brittany said diplomatically.

"You're doing the same thing as Quinn." Santana was still in her awkward position, gazing warily at her, making Brittany squirm in discomfort, as though she had done something wrong. Maybe she had.

"_No_. She was making fun of Rachel. I wouldn't do that to you. You know that. Ever."

"Then why does it feel like I'm not in on the joke?"

"There isn't a joke, San."

"There's always a joke, someone's always laughing, because there's always someone to be laughed at. Cause and effect."

"That's from _The Matrix_ too," Brittany pointed out.

"What?"

"Not important. San, I'm not laughing, and I'm sure I'm not acting like Quinn," she replied as she looked outside to see a frustrated Quinn wind up the swing to a tense coil and then swing it, spinning a hapless Rachel several times around and then a few times less in the other direction, before the brunette slipped over and teetered, falling to her knees, and then scrambling back up again, angrily pointing about twenty degrees to Quinn's left. Santana saw too, and rolled her eyes, standing.

"I'm going to tell tweedle dee and tweedle dumb-ass to get back inside to finish what we started. Brittany caught her hand.

"San, don't." Santana paused, willing to listen, but obviously edging towards the door.

"Why?"

"Because, one, we haven't finished the drink." Santana eyes the bottle of scotch, set on the floor. "and B, I don't want them here."

"You and the greater part of McKinley."

"San, if they come back, it will be just like what Quinn was doing. This…is…private."

"So private, we might hand it in as a school assignment?" Brittany's face screwed up in concentration.

"I mean…..not like that, exactly but…." Her body relaxed, her brow ceases to furrow. "It's the experience that matters." Santana nods absently, and gives one last look back at the duo in the yard. Rachel has turned her back to Quinn, who is gesturing towards the house. Santana smiles.

"What do you think she's saying?"

"_Get in the house Berry_, _I swear… _and then Rachel says, _or what, you're nothing but empty threats, and vagaries."_

"Are you reading their lips?" Santana was amazed at this. Brittany blinked.

"No, I don't know how. I guess I'm reading _them_." Santana stared.

"Well, they are pretty obvious." Walking back to Brittany, the two shared a pause before returning to their positions on the couch. Another mouthful of scotch each settled any nerves that remained.

"Where do we start?

"Let's look at your previous assertion-_'sounds like a cop'_- it might not be, but the circumstances don't change."

"Meaning?"

"We're looking for someone who could be a police officer."

"So, can pass a physical fitness exam."

"Yes, and is able to clear a back ground check, be of reasonable intelligence-"

"Don't be so sure Doc, if you saw some of the pats we have."

"Pats. You mean Patrol?" The detective nodded.

"You catch on quick, huh, Doc." It wasn't a question. Or even sarcastic.

"And you've given me a nickname. I appreciate the welcome."

"Why do you say it's a welcome?" There was nothing in her voice to suggest that the doctor was wrong.

"People only use mnemonic devices to remember, of which nicknames are. If you want to remember me, it means you don't intend to forget me." Doctor Pierce's wry smile was met with a smirk.

The two were now in Detective Llorona's unmarked car, the small buzz from their drinks wearing off, and apparently neither was a lightweight, as none of the two were under the effects of either drunkenness or a hangover. The effect had left Maria without her initial apprehensions and a bit of candor, as 'Doc' had pointed out.

"What else?"

"They'd have to pass a psychological evaluation, wouldn't they?" Maria gave the doctor a look of incredulity.

"Then they cheated, wouldn't you say?" Doctor Pierce laughed.

"It is doable. Cheating a psychological exam, I mean."

"No one's expecting Hannibal to turn up to a recruitment office."

"No, I guess not, and they won't look too closely unless something triggers their suspicions." Maria turned to look at her.

"Anything in particular?" The doctor turned to face her, seeming hesitant.

"Well, don't members of the police force talk about gut feelings," she paused making air quotes, "guiding their work, when other methods have proved ineffective?"

"Not a fan, I take it." The doctor considered it.

"Not exactly. I think I do believe in certain things…destiny…fate…" Doctor Pierce let her head rest against the window, staring at the deserted street outside. Surprised at the sudden change in demeanor, Maria decided to press the issue.

"That seems odd coming from you." Without turning, the doctor asked simply, '_Why_?'

"Aren't fate and destiny and gut feelings all the same thing?" The doctor turned this time.

"You didn't really answer my question, but I'll answer yours: no, for the simple fact that that our sense of things greater than us is more reliable then our sense of what isn't." The detective shot her a quizzical look.

"How does that work?"

"We assume that there's more at work in the universe than meets the eye. We are probably right. We assume there's something more to our intellect than meets the eye. We are probably wrong."

"So, your major life's philosophy is, 'Don't be an arrogant prick'?" Doctor Pierce shut her eyes.

"Among other things." Maria smiled at this and started the car. "Can you drive?"

"I had two beers. Not the one that downed hard liquor, remember? Is it helping you think yet?" Maria was giddy, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?"

"Yeah, I really am." A pause. "You're not gonna vomit all over, are you? I just got this car detailed."

"Don't tempt me." Muttering a few curses under her breath, Maria pulled the car out, opening the passenger side window as she did.

"Aim it out the window."

They had been on the road for ten minutes when something struck the detective as strange.

"Hey, Doc. Something's not right here." The doctor let her head roll toward her, eyes open a crack.

"How's that?"

"You said a scotch and soda helps you think."

"I may have been facetious about the positive cognitive effects of alcohol."

"I got that, smartass. But, if you were that eager to drink, I would think you have done so before. But given that you'll likely make this car very uncomfortable in a few moments, what with all the upchuck? You haven't. Odd time to pick up a drinking habit, wouldn't you say?" Turning to look at the doctor, Maria started a little upon seeing her companion still staring at her. "What?"

"I thought you wanted a response." Maria waited, as her affirmative was implicit. Still staring, she said, "Perhaps I needed a little courage."

"Why's that?"

"I…may have embellished my prior experiences."

"You're not a doctor?"

"I am"

"You've never consulted the police department."

"I have."

"So what, then?" A pause then,

"This is my first time actually being _present_ during the investigation." The detective rolled her eyes.

" There's not going to be a shootout, if that's what you're thinking. So, you have crowd anxiety?"

"Trouble meeting other people, actually. But to the same effect."

"So you drink to self medicate? Still not a good habit, Doc."

"I guess I'm taking a lot of risks tonight then."

"I told you, it's safe."

Doctor Pierce said nothing.

The first crime scene was barely hot, only one 'pat' on guard, who barely glanced up at the badge that was flashed and the explanation of the doctor. An industrial warehouse, built during the fifties, now largely abandoned, save for the occasional shady, at best, activity, screamed at the detective _recent homicide_.

"There aren't any chalk outlines," explained Maria, to the doctor.

"Should there be?"

"I thought you would think there was, since this is your first time."

"My understanding isn't based on exploitation cinema from the sixties, you know." Maria held her hands in mock surrender.

"Okay, no need to get snippy, just trying to help." After a few moments of looking around, Doctor Pierce spoke.

"Detective?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Trying to help."

"Don't worry about it. You see anything interesting?" Walking over to the marker that actually indicated the place of the victim, and looked around.

"Getting in here undetected, and with a weapon capable of dismemberment, would be difficult, unless the individual was small which makes sense."

"You think it might a female?"

"No, no. Probably just a small male. Maybe laughed at in his life, feeling impotent."

"That's one hell of a bad sex life." The doctor spared her a look.

"….not only sex. Life in general. Professional, which bleeds into the other areas: romantic, companionship, and vice versa."

"Poor choice of words, don't you think?" The doctor glanced at the blood that had pooled about, now dry and staining the concrete floor beneath them. Backing on to an untouched surface, frowning with distaste, she nodded.

"Indeed. Likely entrance points would be a shaft or hatch of some kind, given the specification of both our victim and the location." Detective Llorona searched the large room, and saw multiple points of entry.

"Care to narrow that down some?"

"Well, I doubt it was the roof. Unless the individual was Santa Claus."

"It's not Christmas, so doubtful."

"Then, a floor level entrance, accessible from the outside, that lies across, as it would take a lot of strength and dexterity to pull oneself up a downward facing shaft."

"Maybe they're really strong."

"Maybe. But most likely, these victims were chosen at random, and the determination it would take to crawl up, against the grain? It's not likely. Possible, but not probable."

"Fair enough. What makes you say these vics were chosen at random?"

"Drug user. Won't be missed, not to be cruel, but these deaths go unsolved. The mutilation is the only thing that separates it from a random case."

"Is that intentional?"

"Almost assuredly, to separate itself from the milieu of horrific crime is the only purpose served, as far as I can see."

"So, easy access, almost random, you're saying?" The doctor met the detective's stare.

"Nothing's random. Ever."

"Okay then.

Quickly, Doctor Pierce continued, "After all, you wouldn't bring me in if it were, right?"

"Sure, sure." There was a pause, which the doctor filled with a few superfluous glances around the bare room, avoiding the blood stain, which was no easy feat. After a bit, Maria asked casually, "So, next site then?"

"Yes, I-I don't see why not." The detective nodded. Back in the car-barely receiving a nod from the officer on the way out, an oppressive silence resounded, the sound of blood rushing in their ears ever present after seeing so much of it on the floor.

"This next site…is it similar to the previous?" Sparing a look, the detective shrugged.

"Abandoned, but not completely, cold, dark, lonely, the usual."

"For a sociopath."

"Exactly. Why do you ask?" The doctor seemed startled by this question.

"We are building an idea of the murderer, aren't we?"

"Uh-huh. But it's a redundant question, don't you think?"

"What's wrong with redundancy? We aren't in a rush."

"No, but you look like you're waiting for something." Managing a look of incredulity, the doctor scoffed.

"Like what, exactly?"

"You tell me."

"There's nothing to wait for, detective."

"'Cept a sociopath, right Doc?"

"That's one way of looking at it, yes. We're waiting to see if the individual reveals themselves."

"Don't worry; they always do."

"Someone is sure of themselves." Maria made a murmur of disagreement.

"Like you said, nothing's ever random. Never ever. So, I'm confident we'll find something at the end of the night."

"There's no telling what that might be." There was a note of warning in her voice.

"That's the fun of it, I guess."

"This area is different."

"Yeah? How so?" Ignoring the bit of indifference she detected, the doctor walked to the factory's dull clouded windows and looked out through a crack.

"See, there is quite a following down there."

"Following?"

"Gathering. Ruckus. Stream of bodies." The doctor took a breath sensing her own terse tone, but couldn't help the sharp intake of breath as the detective nearly appeared beside her, two strides closing the gap, and glanced down. A few individuals were milling about; being low on the criminal food chain had but one advantage, no one was going to bother with them for the sake of there not being enough hours in a day or interest in the policing community.

"Witnesses," Maria breathed.

"Witnesses," the doctor repeated.

"To make it more challenging, you think?"

"The killing? No. It was after. The mutilation is what this is about, sending a message."

"Easy to kill someone, but hard to get rid of the body. What kind of message is this sending?"

"The first, I suppose, would be 'hi'."

"Well, hello." The detective grinned cheekily. Doctor Pierce swallowed, which she hoped wasn't audible.

"The second is something along the lines of 'Can you catch me now?'"

"Is that an estimation, or are you being exact?"

"It's an approximation; a little of column A, and a little of column B: I can't know what our individual is saying, but I can deduce that…" The doctor trailed off.

"What?"

"Where's the blood?"

"Forensics thought that the killer set down a tarp, plastic."

"Why?"

"Because they got better."

"No one has that good a learning curve."

"Not even you?" Ignoring the question, the doctor dug into the pockets of her corduroy pants, the detective realizing how out of place she was, how….obvious. Producing what looked like a pen light, the doctor cast its miniscule beam across the rafters, down the sides of the walls and across the floor. Aside from the moonlight, it was the only source of illumination, the detective's flashlight aimed at the floor. The beam trailed across the windows, before the doctor stopped, nearly tilting over from her momentum.

"Look." Maria followed her gaze, and then the beam as it rolled across the windows.

"That's a black light." Maria frowned. "Why do you have a black light if you've never actually worked a case?"

"Hotel rooms are awfully filthy. Look the writing is on the wall. Literally."

"So, what does it say?" The doctor circled the small ray of light, showing the first shape of a letter.

"'_G_' The next letter is…_E…T. _Get… A…._C…L…_clue. 'Get a Clue', it says."

"Disrespectful little SOB, huh?"

"Writing in blood, not the least of it."

"An odd message, unless…"

"Unless what?"

"That's what you're here for, isn't it?" Maria shot back.

"Input always helps, detective," the doctor returned.

"Seems specific, is all."

"You're suggesting I had something to do with this." It was a statement, not a question.

"No. Perhaps the killer _is_ one of our own, a cop. Others know about you, you know."

"I'm aware." There was a long silence, in the darkness, before the detective spoke up again.

"We should go on then." In the little light there was, she could see the doctor's surprise.

"I thought they were only two spots scheduled for tonight?"

"Yeah well, evil doesn't rest. Are you, knowing that's," the detective shined her flashlight where the message was revealed, "still out there?"

"Lead the way, then." The detective smirked, but the gesture lost some of its enthusiasm, falling short into some kind of twitch.

The detective shut off the light, plunging them back into the night, even before they went outside.

"Odd."

"How?" The detective did not seem thrown by the quick assessment.

"This area is secluded. This doesn't fit the pattern at all."

"Disappointed?"

"Why would you say that?"

"It doesn't match you theories."

"There are always outliers."

"Are there?"

"Yes, and-" the doctor turned to meet the end of Detective Llorona's service weapon, and froze. "What-what are you doing?"

"Pulling my gun, what's it look like?"

"Why?" Maria ignored the question.

"So, tell me Doc, what do you figure it says about the killer, the ways the victim were done in? It's the only thing not constant. Why?"

"Didn't matter. The point was always about the bodies. Besides, this was never about that individual. It was about everyone around. The killer was but a vessel for a message, a hollowed out shell." The detective smirked.

"So it's not the murderer's fault? Some twisted logic you got there, Doc."

"I never said that. The killer is irrelevant; they think they have a mission, but they're only a point of transference, an urban legend, something to talk about during a lull in conversation years, hell, even months from now."

"Who says it's over?" The doctor grinned.

"You've drawn your weapon; you've set things in motion that can't be stopped." Taking advantage of the shadows, Doctor Pierce inched toward an upright, corroded pipe. "The thing about these abandoned factories, warehouses, that the killer liked, was never the seclusion, or the darkness as you thought-"

"Don't move."

"But the ability, even need, for…. _Improvisation." _ Hearing the gun being cocked, the doctor curled her fingers around the pipe, gripping it as tightly as she was sure the detective's finger was about the trigger. "It's inevitable." Snapping the pipe like a baton, the detective reflexively ducked out of the way but managed to get off a shot, as the doctor used the momentum from her toss to seek cover in the deeper well of shadows, echoes of her steps trailing off into the darkness. The detective cursed, and ran after, the pillars of ebon engulfing her form as well.

A patrol, a _pat_, who came to investigate the up scale car idling in a deserted area would field reports from passerby about two shots piercing the night air, after the first, of hearing shouts and admittedly running away, afraid of the gunplay, but also the eeriness of the disembodied voices, unsure how of this earth they may have been. But it had been hours later anyway, when that officer entered, after calling for backup, gun drawn to see…. _Nothing_.

"Nothing? Forgive me if I'm out of place Captain Braefay, but, they are reports-"

"I'm getting to that. I know it's been ten years, but I still remember." The reporter, a Miss Errby, nodded. The captain returned the gesture. "After piecing together the timeline, I went with the forensic team. Having over heard the bits and pieces of their conversations from people who saw them, I realized what had happened." The reporter's eyes grew almost comically wide, but she stayed silent. The captain wondered why she gave this interview, but resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and figured a decade without this blowing back in her face was grace period enough. "The killer was in this room," she paused, to grin slightly at the chestnut haired ingénue of journalism's impulse to glance from side to side, as though some mad fiend were to burst wielding a fire ax, and then grin sheepishly at the older woman, "and I let them in here." Miss Errby nodded.

"So you had to figure if the consultant you hired or your best detective were a homicidal maniac?"

"If you're going to make such an uncouth statement, at least go for the gold: I had to realize that I had either let in the murderer of my best _friend_, or never knew that she was a sociopath, despite spending the better part of my adult life with her and being a cop." The reporter swallowed audibly.

"Sorry; I'm new at this."

"Obviously. You're not half bad, if this is where you start out, though." Miss Errby grinned.

"Thanks. Um, what happened next, with such poor choices at hand?"

"I went to the site, where they had been last seen, or heard, for that matter, and wondered."

"Wondered?"

"Wondered who had looked into the eyes of the devil incarnate, and that was the last thing she saw."

"Fair enough. But how do you know it wasn't a third party?"

"Because when I got to the site, the same luminal trick was used; there was blood on the wall, scare enough to dry by the time someone got there, but left behind a stain."

"Not sure if I want to know this, but I have to ask, for the sake of my readers, what did this message say?" The captain took a breath.

"It said, in all capital letters, _EENIE MEINIE MINEY MOE_." The reporter let go of a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

"You figured out what had happened, all from fragments of conversations?"

"The doctor was…. _Unique_, _eccentric_. I remember enough to see how a dialogue between her and Maria would have played out."

"But it seems they both incriminated themselves, and believed the other was the killer from what was heard."

"The doctor was nervous and seemed tense. Maria seemed eager, a little too much. Burt the same could be said if the doctor though she was riding with a killer and if Detective Llorona," She had thought it too familiar for the interview, at least for how many times she had said it.

"People had heard bits and pieces, and it could go either way." The captain nodded.

"Isn't that the way things always are? _Everything is certain, we just don't know it is_" The reporter nodded, sensing a tagline.

"Can I quote you on that?"

"And then the captain's all, sure-" Santana, now lying down across Brittany, cracked an eye open. Brittany kept one hand running a circular motion across girl's stomach, so as to keep her from falling asleep. The blonde knew that if Santana fell asleep, she would waste her euphoria, and to add insult to injury, likely wake up hung-over.

Friends don't let friends drink irresponsibly, after all.

"I think that's a good stopping point, Britts."

"Okay, then."

Santana sat up, a little sleepy, and fairly drunk, somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to her that she would have to explain this to her parents if her inebriation didn't wear off before she got home, but most of her concern was on maintaining her balance. Holding on to Brittany for support, the two managed to fall back to a spot within ear shot of Rachel and Quinn. The first was back in the swing, the latter, absently shoving the brunette when expended kinetic energy brought the chained strap too close. Granted, to the uninitiated observer, it would look as though Quinn was pushing the world's most developed three year old on a swing. Then the pseudo three year old asked a question.

"What I'm asking is, whether it would matter, Quinn." The blond girl stared straight ahead, but answered.

"Of course it would matter, Berry."

"Why?"

"Because it must be taken into consideration."

"No, it doesn't."

"You don't have friends. You wouldn't understand." Rachel scoffed.

"I'm surprised you only have two, with such a _winning_ attitude."

"How would you feel if the two people closest to you were sharing something so personal?"

"First, the two people closest to me _do_: my dad and daddy. Why would Santana being a lesbian change that? They share it regardless."

"Brittany, she's different. She doesn't understand things the way we do." At this remark, Santana glanced worriedly at Brittany, who returned the look, apparently equally concerned for her friend/lover/something or another.

"Different? How?"

"Brittany is a very…_loving_ person. She can be at the center of _several_ relationships and not notice."

"So if Santana's gay…."

"This is a lesbian relationship."

"If she's not…."

"This is different. Deeper. Shallow. Different. I don't know how." Rachel planted her feet in the ground.

"Because you can write off Brittany, but not Santana, that's why."

"Write off?"

"Deal with, handle."

"I can 'deal'; it's Santana that can't."

"How else is there to 'deal' with it besides what she is currently doing?"

Back inside, the girl herself snorted.

"What difference _does_ it make?"

"People want to know."

"Why?" Santana paused. "It does have to do with the story!" Brittany smiled, slightly amused by Santana's outburst.

"How?" Some faint thought about the irony of Brittany playing dumb passed through her consciousness.

"Because, it's like in the story…you're comparing what…we have…to a _murder_ investigation?" The realization seemed hurtful, traitorous even, hers or Brittany's she wasn't sure.

"It's not that simple."

"So, what? Just like we don't know who the murderer was, neither of us know how," she pointed between the two of them, "this started?" The only sound was of Brittany's uniform rustling as she nodded.

"So, the point is," another pause, "that it doesn't matter?" Another nod.

"So you were trying to tell me something, without actually telling me?" A third nod, this time paired with an exasperated expression.

"People know, and if they don't, they think."

"Do they?" Brittany nodded earnestly, chin nearly touching her chest.

"I'm joking Britt. I-I know they do. But don't think I'm embarrassed, or ashamed or anything." Santana looked like she wanted to say something else, but there didn't seem to be anything else to say.

"I know. And don't think that I think that you think that, okay?"

"Um, okay?"

"I never thought that. Ever."

"Before…"

"I meant, you always look guilty, but not because of that."

"Then why?"

"It's like you feel that this is someone's fault and that someone is you. You don't think it's bad, but you feel…responsible."

"Well, aren't I?"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No."

"People don't _take_ _responsibility_ for things they think are good, San."

"Because that would make them assholes. And I am not an asshole." Santana giggled, still feeling the effects of the liquor. Brittany seemed more reserved than her a testament to the potency of the scotch, as little there was, and as they had shared it, albeit with Santana taking the lion's share.

"So being with me makes you an asshole?"

"No…"

"So being with me is bad?"

"_No_," Santana said, forcefully. Brittany stared, and smiled, sadly.

"That's a parabox." Santana squinted, than blinked.

"I think it's paradox, B"

"Not in this case." A minute passed before Santana got the joke, than laughed, breaking the tension, but just a little.

"I'm…happy with you, B."

"But?"

"This is the result," said Santana choosing her words carefully, "of someone's actions, someone's wants and, well yeah, needs, too. Mine."

"I'm happy with you, too." Santana frowned.

"But weren't you happy before?"

"Yes."

"So you're happy, _and_ you're with me."

"I'm happy to be with you, San. That's it."

"Happy, now you're with me."

"Were you happy before?" Brittany asked, trying a different approach, this pedantic wordplay tiring her.

"No. Yes. …Maybe not as much?"

"Best two out of three, then. You are happier now."

"Yes." Santana conceded in the face of Brittany's calm certainty.

"So, are you feeling bad about being happier, or because you think I'm not as happy?"

"What, now you're my therapist?" Given all the malice Santana could have put into that question, Brittany was almost surprised by the amusement behind it.

"We're just talking."

"I thought we were telling stories."

"That's a type of talking."

"So let's tell another story." Santana looked outside. Neither Rachel or Quinn had moved, but it seemed as though both had stopped talking. Above them, the sun was beginning to set, and checking her cell, saw that it was past five. Brittany seemed disappointed, but nodded.

"Your turn," the blonde intoned. Santana reached out for the bottle. Having already been half empty, and being shared between them, only a splash remained. It was enough to get her buzzed, and thusly brave; she otherwise wouldn't have the ability to deflect Brittany's questions without stuttering and falling all over herself.

"Okay, I think…voodoo is pretty scary, right B?" Santana was looking to change the lack of expression on the other girl's face. Brittany didn't get mad, or even. She became distant, because without the ability to be happy, she wasn't herself, hence the muted personality.

"Spooky. Sure." Santana faltered. Cheap scotch, failing courage.

"Right. So, there could be, some sort of…a, a…." Santana looked directly at Brittany, whose face was set in disinterest, something reserved for the rest of the world besides Santana. "Okay, I get it. You're mad at me."

"I'm not mad."

"Then what's with the look?"

"I'm waiting to hear your story."

"Brittany, do you still like me?" For the first time since Santana had met her, Brittany rolled her eyes.

"Of course." Santana turned her head to the side, crossed her arms over her chest, and pouted.

"Doesn't feel like it."

"You know I do." Santana reached down to absently play with the carpet they were sitting on, running her hands through the fibers, before sneaking a look at Brittany, who stared back, blue eyes touched with a cloud of mild alarm and annoyance. Santana returned her interest to the shag, until she felt two arms around her, and the view of the carpet was replaced with one of Brittany's collarbone. Hugging back, Santana grinned wickedly into Brittany's neck, satisfied with her ploy, remembering to let the smirk drop from her face after the embrace ended.

"Thank you."

"Still not convinced?"

"Convinced about what?"

"So, Voodoo?"

"I- Yeah Britts, voodoo."

"Pins and needles, or curses?"

"I guess I'm going with pins and needles," Santana said, slightly caught off guard.

"Title?" Santana only now became aware that Brittany was helping her over her mental block, and grinned, glad to have the blond to her old self. Santana made a show of thinking hard, scratching her chin with her index finger and pursing her lips.

"How about, _Acupuncture for Beginners_?" Santana felt her own face break into a smile as Brittany's grew wider. "You can either get pricked _yourself_," Dark brown eyes danced with mirth at the obvious double entendre, "or do it to someone else."

Stress relief is a big deal. Since the beginning of recorded history, it was believed that the body was responsible for all aches and pains, and that compromised body parts were subject to everything from rot to possession. Infectious disease was a novel idea, is still a novel idea. Few people understand that tiny organisms, little packets of genetic information, same as our own, save for the content, can invade bodies. They are even more confused when told that most of the things felt during illness our the body's own devices, from fever to nausea, to fainting and pain. Especially pain. They believe it is foreign to them, caused by other things, rather than a response.

I find that funny.

Perhaps it is a good thing. Not being aware of mortality, of how fragile they are. Or, how easy it is to rise above. Keeps them safe, secure, and most importantly docile. It's a duality I truly love. On the one hand, they stay down, on the other they seem confused as to how much it plays a role in their lives.

People are impervious, but transmutable. A contradiction in itself so perfect, only my father could have thought it up. They can never be broken, you see, but small pieces imbed daily into others: influence, cause and effect, the violation for the sake of reproduction (yes, it's _always_ a violation, they just make the best of it, is all). What can be buried inside? Let us count the ways .

Little fetishes can be bought in any number of small shops frowned upon by the supposed servants of my father, awaiting personalization. Small star like people, in numbers legion, like the golem and the ushabti before them. Stand ins, talismans, ease delivered where concern should be paramount.

_Fools rush in…_where I fear to tread.

Anything, a hair, some personal effect, a bit of blood.

Lost myself for a minute there.

There's nothing wrong with a little manipulation. Never deceive yourself that you shake off my father's will. Never think that anyone but your mother and father hundreds of times removed tasted, the fruit that never touched the ground. The world is still quite innocent.

Anyway, it is important to be clear when dealing with this sort of thing, backfired situations are the worst, but there are things never seen, and the niggling understanding that something was done that shouldn't and can't be undone.

It's not only needles, though. Touches, soft, hard, fire, other little stars, make them dance.

Twenty four skidoo, twenty five….

But clarity is paramount. See, you have to put in what you get out. So, you're responsible. I'm going to admit something. You really don't need all this. If clarity is had, the results will be the same. Firm, decisive. Otherwise, other…interested parties may fill in the blanks, or your intended might, too. Will is a tricky thing, it buoys up when not pushed down.

People really are impervious. I've said that, haven't I? But I've come to it again. People never believe. That control can be had, or that control is given up. I, myself, have never had any doubt.

Look at us. I talk. You listen. You hear. I speak to reach your ears.

You'd like to believe that wouldn't you? That this isn't a bit of something we both work on?

It's just like I said. You think you're all powerful, but weak at the same time. Just a conversation. And a building just a very big pie of bricks, and you're just a very nice design of my father's. It's more than that. So much more.

Really, you can't be this naïve. You're not stupid, in any sense of the word. Give and take? It's less. It's isolated. It's changing warping, and never getting any closer, just farer apart. It's selfish, it's idolatry, making others worship what we…what you do, I mean. It's stress relief and nothing more, not even that word for chants and small people of straw.

It's acupuncture for beginners.

Santana sat up suddenly, glaring darkly out the window. Rachel and Quinn still hadn't returned, and now the last vestiges of the sun were fading fast. Brittany looked tired, and the sight of the long since finished bottle of whiskey reminded her that the small buzz that she had was gone, and how truly long the day had been.

"Seriously, how long has it been?" Brittany smiled, and Santana raised an eyebrow.

"You read my mind," she explained, and Santana flashed a smile of her own. As soon as the other girl turned to face the window, Brittany let hers drop from her face. Stretching, Santana saw the two of them, Rachel sitting forlornly on the swing, Quinn's head bowed in what appeared to be prayer, or she could have been sleeping standing up, Santana wouldn't put it past the girl. Brittany thought they looked like they were in observance of some motionless funeral possession, sad and quiet. It clicked, _something_ must have happened. First they were talking of Santana and herself, and it seemed the conversation had turned to Rachel and Quinn, as neither even looked at each other.

"Great. We send Q out to go get her, and they both end up having a moment out of _Deliverance." _Brittany scrunched her face in confusion.

"You think Quinn made Rachel squeal like a pig?" Santana let go a loud peal of laughter, causing Rachel and Quinn to glance toward the house.

"I think they forgot about us."

"Should we do something about the liquor bottle?" Something about 'liquor bottle', instead of 'whiskey bottle' made it seem unseemly and caused Santana to grab the abandoned glass container a bit frantically, until Brittany plucked it out of her hands, strode to the sink, and deposited it among what sounded like other bottles, a recycling bin she figured as the kitchen door opened to reveal a bemused Quinn and a suspicious Rachel. Santana and Brittany were the epitome of innocence, the latter girl trotting calmly back to the kitchen island and taking her place on a stool. Santana joined her, and returned the stares from their two reluctant companions.

"Took you long enough."

"Berry wouldn't move."

"Quinn wouldn't apologize." Rachel rejoined.

"It's your turn," Brittany interjected, and Santana sensed the blonde was tired: she was beginning to repeat herself.

"I already went, that means she's talking to you," Quinn said, pointing resolutely at Rachel, who was taken aback.

"How? Why not Brittany or Santana?"

"Went already." The triumph was evident in Santana's voice.

"While Quinn and I were outside? But that's against the rules."

"What rules? It's story time."

"And for the sake of your audience you should have waited. Or called us."

"You chose to go outside, Berry," Santana defended. "Besides, Quinn doesn't seem to care, do you?" Quinn took a seat, her prim posture wilted, but retained begrudgingly.

"What's your angle Lopez? What happened in here anyway?" Quinn's scrutiny was meat with anger.

"Screw you, Fabray. The hell happened out there that you like the hobbit all of a sudden?"

"_Nobody_ likes Berry," stated Quinn in a matter of fact tone. "And I'm just wondering if there's anywhere I shouldn't _sit."_ Santana blew up.

"Yeah, Quinn! Right there, on that stool you're sitting on! I fucked Brittany right there, just to piss your repressed, bitch self off! Now what?!" While Brittany examined the circumference of the chair to see if indeed it could support a fornicating couple and Quinn and Santana stared each other down, Rachel shut her eyes and focused on the task at hand. Opening her eyes, she coughed politely into her hand catching the attention of the three cheerleaders.

"Once I tell my tale," Santana's eye roll did not go unnoticed, "and we pick, you'll leave?"

"We would stay because….?" Rachel took this as a yes.

"Great. Then I am ready." Greeted by bored and irritated stares and in the instance of Brittany a surprisingly placid gaze, she took as good a time as any to begin. "The title is _Maestro_, a story of a cursed-" Quinn made a noise of discontent. "Something wrong Quinn?" Disinterested hazel eyes shifted lazily, in contrast to their sharpness when they met Rachel's.

"Unoriginal, isn't it?" Santana slid down in her seat, bracing for another argument she didn't want to hear nor could be a part of, and Brittany eyes dulled just a bit.

"We can't all have great _flaming_ balls of fire as our antagonists, now can we?"

"Maybe not, but we could at least try, can't we?"

"'We've' tried. 'We' don't care anymore." Head in her hands, Santana groaned.

"Get. On. With. It. Already."

"Gladly. Superstition is alive and well in almost all venues of the entertainment industry; from the expression 'break a leg', or the rampant rumors of a curse plaguing any movie unfortunate enough to have a cast member pass away."

"Are you going to break out the power point, too?"

"No, Quinn. There are some things that don't or shouldn't require further discussion, wouldn't you agree?" Quinn was catching on, that was plain to everyone at the island, although only Rachel and Quinn knew _what_ she was catching on too. A pause broke as quickly as it came on and Rachel turned back to the four as a group once again. "To the 'ghost light' left on after everyone goes home in theater for the spirits of the deceased to put on their own shows. In the music industry, as temperamental as musicians can be, sometimes their instruments can be more so, and people in this business have a habit of treating their tools as though they were people, do so at their own risk and peril." Rachel paused for dramatic effect, and pretended not to see Santana mouth, _'Ay, mi Dios'_ before continuing.

Lucas stared at the array of musical instruments. Normally, every shop would have its own distinction: guitar or wind instrument shop, violin craftsmen, wind instrument, etcetera. But Lucas was destitute, and if you're going to make it in New York, especially after the crackdown on panhandling, one needed a decent instrument, to play, as a voice would be drowned out by the various denizens of the subways and squares and restaurants.

So here he was at _Requiem's Lost and Found_, a nice way of saying pawn broker. The place wasn't seedy, but there was little expected of a person who made money of the ill fortune of others.

Lucas had little formal training but had the ability to play by ear, and his trade was the violin. Easy enough; violins are not high maintenance: no wires no extra parts, besides a bow, of course, and if you were creative, even that was unnecessary.

The broker, that is, the barterer asked Lucas if he had found what he was looking for; Lucas indicated what appeared to be a Stradivarius replica, buying it at a steep price for a battered and old replica, minus decent strings, service and a bit of a polish. Lucas relented and begrudgingly handed over a large part of his savings from his time in the city that never sleeps. While needing to be replaced, the strings were a good fit, and tested well on a dime store bow he had procured earlier in the week. Turning over the replica, Lucas found what appeared to be a name inscribed into the now dulled wood.

_Brittana._

"Berry." The surname was said through gritted teeth.

"Quinn." Rachel responded demurely, continuing. Brittany and Santana shared a glance but said nothing.

Lucas paused, wondering what this name meant. He couldn't place why this name was so important, if that is what it was. Perhaps a ship the musician who last owned it, or at least the _last_ musician who owned it played on. Or may be the site of it's inception. Lucas had never heard of it before. Some part of it imagined it to be a fantastic, romantic place, where things were better, where he wouldn't be so alone-

Rachel was interrupted by the full force of Quinn Fabray rushing into her, and as she fell, her thoughts migrated back to the tail end of her conversation with her assailant, in her yard.

"So you can't handle two girls _together_?"

"Not _everything_ is about beliefs, Berry?"

"So what is this about? Enlighten me?"

"Not my problem, and I don't envy whosever it is."

"Certainly you're not jealous?" Rachel's tone suggested that in fact, that was likely the cause.

"I don't get jealous; I get what I want."

"Well, you can't in this case. The other kids at school even get it. They're _Brittana_, because they're never apart. For you to be a part, that would require you to offer yourself in a way that you never would, and some new portmanteau would be made, I can't figure," Rachel was actually considering this, to such a bit that she had gotten to Fabrana- and realized as far as she knew, no one knew Brittany's last name before she realized that Quinn hadn't greed that she would be unwilling to join in on whatever Santana and Brittany had, if they would ever let her.

Rachel's head snapped back, the blonde had her head down, with the chestnut haired girl herself shocked into silence. A mix of numbness, curiosity and even, at the notion that someone was even more desperate than her to make friends that wouldn't leave her behind, guilt, seeped through and Rachel resigned herself to work through these feelings staring straight ahead as she did.

Back in the present, she was aware that her name was being called, her attempt to return Quinn's mockery and insults earned her the dubious reaction:

"Shut up, _Rachel. _The given name was punctuated with Quinn, on top of her, Brittany and Santana trying to pull her off, shoving her down, banging her head, though not hard enough to leave a mark, discomforting all the same.

"Be quiet _Rachel_." _Bump. "_Hush _Rachel."_ Bump. Stop talking, _Rachel" Bang. _At this point Rachel began to flail, and Quinn instinctively went for the only part of Rachel's body that wasn't impacting her: Her throat.

"Oh, fuck, Q, this is the dream, but not like this, not like this!" Gripping Quinn's hands, and ignoring Santana's disturbing comment, Rachel managed to try an effective, although uncouth tatic

"Argh! She bit me." Quinn clutched her hand, and fumed, not noticing Rachel aim her knee into Quinn's side, managing to roll away from her incapacitated attacker. "OW!" roared Quinn, falling into Santana and Brittany.

The sudden rattle of the front door caused all four to become quiet, and still. Rachel was on high alert agter nearly being strangled and wondered if it were an intruder or the police or-

"Honey we're home! Guess what I actually managed to find a vegan place in Ohio that doesn't smell like weed- oh." Hiram Berry was a pale, clean cut man, with square spectacles and a vaguely alarmed expression on his face. "I didn't know you had friends….having friends over, " he quickly amended. Brittany shot Santana a knowing look. Quinn froze, ready to be indicated as the freak that chokes people, felt her breath exhale as Rachel simply cleared her throat, and said, if a bit hoarsely, "They're just classmates. We were working on a project. We're done now, and they were just leaving, when Quinn," she indicated the girl still clutching her hand who smiled sheepishly a first for her, and she hoped the last, "lost her contact lens and asked us to help." A pause, and a pointed look at the trio, "She has it now, though." The thio nodded amongst themselves and scrambled up, heading for the front door, as Hiram waved good bye, and noted that Rachel should have a little tea, her voice sounded odd, and the lok he gave her told her that her lack of concern over her voice was atypical, she merely nodded and made a mental note to be diligent about wearing scarves and asking her dads to bring her some non fructose cough drops. Gathered at the door, Brittany intoned about the status of their project and then offered to handle it for them in the same breath, to which Rachel merely nodded, wearily. Quinn regarded her coolly, before sauntering off, and Santana muttered a string of Spanish curses under breath, ignoring Rachel completely.

Two weeks later, Rachel got the assignment back, surprised to have received an A- with a note attached:

_While creativity is appreciated, this medium isn't._

It was a detailing of the day's events minus the last episode, of course. Rachel blinked.

It was written entirely in crayon.


End file.
